Broken yet again.

Like I'd mentioned, just when you think life seems great back to normal something like this happens. Another tragedy. Another war striking simultaneously. Where are we headed? What are we headed for? cruelty? pain? grief? is that all 2025 is gonna bring us? is that all we deserve? I don't know. And I had decided I wasn't going to address this but...

I don't know how to begin this. Words feel insufficient, even hollow. But silence feels worse. Ever since the news of the airplane crash on June 12th broke, I've been stuck somewhere between disbelief and devastation. My heart has been aching in ways I can’t explain — for the lives lost, for the families left behind, for the sheer horror of it all.

There’s something so terrifyingly unnatural about a plane crash. It’s not just tragedy — it’s betrayal. A betrayal of safety, of expectations, of life itself. One moment, people are checking in, texting their loved ones “see you soon,” choosing window seats, arguing about legroom. Planning holidays, business trips, reunions. And in the next… they’re gone. A list. A number. Ashes.

Burnt metal. Screams that will never stop echoing. Black smoke swallowing the sun. People running. People falling. Families waiting. Phones ringing that no one will answer. These are not just headlines. These are real. These are lives, torn apart like paper in fire.

What the media won’t show you — or worse, what they’ll plaster everywhere like some new hot entertainment — are the moments that feel almost too cruel to speak about. Students who were laughing over lunch, relaxing after exams, some scrolling on their phones. Some calling their parents. chilling. studying. Just living. And then — nothing. In seconds, lives reduced to ash. Families now looking at charred remains, unsure if there will even be anything to bury or cremate.

And the media? They don’t stop. A powdered face behind a news desk. A practised tone. A mic thrust into the trembling hands of someone who just lost their world. Cameras flashing like this is some red carpet moment of tragedy. Names of news channels louder than the names of the dead. They swarm hospitals like vultures, asking grieving families how they feel. As if there’s a word for it. As if someone trying to identify a body should be expected to form a sentence. As if there are words for watching your child board a flight and never return. As if anyone owes them answers. The hospitals are not newsrooms. The air is not for soundbites. The grief is not your rating boost. Show some decency. Let the broken breathe. It’s inhuman. The coverage feels less like news and more like a morbid reality show. Loud voices on screens, debating logistics, politics, numbers — but never silence for grief. Never respect. Just another breaking story. Just another event to discuss for hours, while real people are falling apart quietly in hospital corridors and on blood-soaked tarmac.

They behave like it’s an election season — microphones shoved into faces swollen from crying, cameras zoomed in on trembling hands and tear-soaked saris, breaking news alarms running while someone’s world is literally burning down behind them. And it’s not just one outlet. It’s across the board. Competing for exclusives, pushing boundaries, trampling grief for views. This isn’t journalism — it’s cruelty masked as “coverage.”

The collateral damage is more than we’ll ever understand. Some passengers were heading home to see parents, some settling down into new jobs, some grieving other losses — looking for comfort, not knowing tragedy would meet them instead. There were children on that flight. Parents. Students with dreams. Newlyweds. People just… living. And now their families live in an abyss of what-ifs and why-nots.

And then comes the part that makes your stomach turn even more — the so-called compensation. One crore. One. One crore for the sound of laughter now missing from a home. For the warmth of hugs that will never come. For the decades of memories that will never be made.  No amount of money can rebuild what’s been shattered. As if that is the value of a human life. Is that what they were worth? Their memories, their futures, their laughter, their fears, their plans — all calculated, packaged, and reduced to a figure on paper? What do you even say to someone who’s lost everything? “Here’s your cheque”? And what does that cheque even say? "Sorry, we failed you"? "Here’s a price for your child’s smile"?

I want to be very clear: I am no one to even comment on the pain that people are experiencing right now. My feelings — as helpless, gutted, and overwhelmed as they are — are nothing compared to the agony of those who lost their loved ones in that crash. I am not here to speak for them. Because no one can. There are no words. There is no “statement” or “post” or “solidarity message” that can fill that kind of void. I only write this because not speaking at all feels even heavier.

I don’t intend to offend or misrepresent. I don’t intend to turn anyone’s grief into a narrative. If anything I’ve said comes off wrong, I am very sorry — because my heart is breaking, and I don’t know how to put that ache into enough words. Nothing is enough. Not right now.

I’ve always believed in the power of words. But right now, they feel powerless. I don’t know how to console anyone. I don’t know how to not think about it, how to stop imagining the faces, the last phone calls, the ones who are now only memories for someone. I don’t know how to breathe without it aching.

This tragedy is not just an incident. It’s a scar that runs deeper than the eye can see. It’s not a number or a name on a list — it’s a storm that has swept through lives and hearts and homes. It’s the kind of pain that lingers even in silence.

To those who were on that flight — I carry your memory with me, even though I never knew you.

To the families — I will never pretend to understand your pain, but I will not stop grieving with you.

And to those turning this into content — remember this: your job is to report, not to dehumanize. Let the grieving grieve. Grief doesn’t come with a script or a stopwatch. It stumbles, it spirals, it screams in silence. Everyone walks through it differently. And to question, film, or harass someone mid-collapse — that’s not journalism. That’s cruelty.

It’s not reporting — it’s intrusion disguised as "information". A slow, merciless tearing of what little peace the grieving are trying to find.

Have some humanity. Let them mourn without the spotlight. Let their pain breathe and come out without a lens in their face.

I have nothing more to say, no hope to give, because to say "they're always there with you" is the most ruthless and careless reply. No words. Be it "anyone’s" can fill a void so tragic. 

Godspeed.

As ever,

Ambika.